Metropolis
by QueenTrione
Summary: Sara's upset, Grissom is quiet and the streets of Vegas grow brighter at night. (GS implied- Sara's POV)


**Metropolis.******

**Summary:** Sara is upset, Grissom is quiet, the streets of Vegas grow brighter as night falls. (G/S implied - Sara's POV)

**Rating:** R- Because I'm still paranoid and it has a bit of language.

**Disclaimer:** Just checked. Still a poor college student.

**Feedback**: All kinds welcome.   

**A/N:** The setting is unusual, the style is unusual and the moment might seem unusual as well. What can I say, I can get strange a times.  To my credit, let me just say the scene was one of those 'won't go away' things, so this is really a literary exorcism of sorts.  Also, CTB is completely to blame for my posting this. Thanks for the encouragement chica.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette and staring at the busy street before me, as I let the truly shitty nature of life sink in. When something makes my head turn left, I catch you approaching from the corner, an air of nonchalance to your stride, like everything in this fucked up world is perfectly fine. God, I could kill you sometimes.

I roll my eyes and go back to staring.

You stop just a couple of steps short of where my lighter lays abandoned on the sidewalk. I keep my eyes on the street, but I can almost see the disapproving look on your face. 

"You're smoking", you say, stating the obvious in a flat tone of voice.

At that my head snaps in your direction, just long enough to give you my best 'not shit, Sherlock' look, with a little 'piss off' attitude added for good measure.  

You take the hint and sit down quietly next to my lighter.

It's too early, or too late, one can never really be sure in this town. I keep waiting for you to say something else, finish your rant. A part of me even wants you to go on, so that I can finally argue out loud that it's not the passing and the loss that bothers me, but the 'hows' and the 'whens' that tear me apart. Some things shouldn't happen to some people. Some things shouldn't happen at all.  You however, remain quiet and give away no intention of continuing your admonition. After a while I feel secure on your silence and start to relax, feeling a hint of senseless satisfaction creep up on me. Yet, when my temper is back down, I have to admit (albeit grudgingly), that this is actually the reason I keep you around:  You don't say much…Most of the time. 

The dissolving satisfaction leaves a void, as does the dwindling adrenaline rush. 

Neither of us breaks the solidifying silence. Instead we sit and stare at the cars passing us by, at the people going in and out of buildings, running after their lives. The natural darkness of the evening is being replaced by the hurtful brightness of a multitude of blaring neon signs. At the same time, the market at the end of the block is getting crowded with honest citizens in search of normalcy, cigarettes and beer. I feel surreal, like I'm actually sitting inside some absurd dream where people are made of Styrofoam and blood is made of Jell-o. I wonder how the truth about of this place would sell in the brochures. 'Welcome to murder central!' I get a sudden urge to vomit but I just swallow and I decide the time is up for another hit of nicotine.  

The pack is to my right, which forces me to completely turn my back on you for a moment.  By the time I turn around to get my lighter, I find you holding it in your hand, playing with the short flickering flame.  You offer it to me without protest, yet don't bother to conceal the tentative, begging smile on your face. I get the hint and put the cigarette down, half annoyed, half amused that you've got me pulling this kind of crap somehow. I don't comment, trying to remain stoic about my new concession. It's no use. Your face grows bright with a silent gloating grin that lets me know my antics just gave away my mock stoicism. This time, I can't help my own smile. 

Unfortunately, only a few seconds later your expression clouds over, betraying your initial nonchalance. Sadly enough, I can read you better now, and I know you're wishing you could just fade away, escape all the craziness and the stupidity, the rage and the brightness of the nights.  You look so tired, so old; I figure that's how I must look too, like I'm 36 going 80. Like I'm wearing too much make up and stole someone else's clothes. I keep my eyes on you as a corner of your lips rises in a somewhat apologetic gesture before tuning toward the street. For a moment I consider reaching out to touch you but I rule it out as useless. Later when we're inside, we'll leave the weight of the world in some random corner with our discarded clothes. Then we'll lie awake for a while, pretending to be asleep while we educate our brains in the fine art of compartmentalization.  

For now, I simply follow you back to staring. In the minutes that follow, I don't try to put logic behind illogical intolerance, nor reason behind unreasonable rage. I merely watch the lights as they grow brighter and brighter with each passing minute. The certainty that every atom of wasted neon is another reason to grieve fills me to my bones. 

When the lights are bright enough, I put my hand on your shoulder and squeeze. If we want to forget a little, we need to go now, before it's time to start all over again.


End file.
